


Farfalle

by joongz



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pasta, Reunion, Vampires, this happened because my friend hates butterfly shaped pasta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22005634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joongz/pseuds/joongz
Summary: Wooyoung is a notorious vampire, not for his immortality or fangs, not for writing the laws and rules on modern vampirism... No. Wooyoung lived in Italy during the 1500s, helping in the creation of the famous Farfalle pasta.San has been around for as long as Wooyoung, and heabsolutelydespises Farfalle pasta.What happens when they meet in the XXI century?! Tune in to find out!
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 9
Kudos: 109





	Farfalle

**Author's Note:**

> My fav human is a Cancer and I am a Sagittarius, we were talking about Farfalle pasta because my friend doesn't like it whereas I absolutely love it, and somehow I decided, hey this is woosan dynamics, and here we are.
> 
> Enjoy!!

San stepped into the Italian restaurant, his winter coat fluttered behind him, as it did per usual, and his metal cane came down on the ceramic tiles, a _ting_ resonating through the crowded restaurant. 

He moved with precision and deliberation, quick and swift as the wind, his coat couldn’t do much except to wave like a cape wherever he went. And San relished in that sensation, it made him feel all powerful and intimidating. As a vampire Lord those two attributions were incredibly necessary, especially in a situation like the one he was about to face right in that instant.

A new vampire Lord had moved into town, and at first San hadn’t minded, he welcomed anyone that wanted to share Seoul with him—as long as they set some fair and reasonable rules—but then a name had made its way over to San’s den and he could not have stopped himself from meeting this notorious vampire.

The Italian restaurant smelled of candle wax, tomato sauce, and human sweat, as would be expected. San didn’t wrinkle his nose in disgust, he only regarded the staff with a nod as he walked towards the back of the restaurant, where a sign read _Staff Only_. He pushed it open with his cane, stepping inside with an air of authority.

“Ah, San,” the vampire Lord greeted him. He was conversing with one of the waitresses, he sent her off with a wave of his hand, then he turned to fully meet San. He seized him up, his gaze travelling from San’s white hair down to the impeccable blue suit he was wearing, and finally haltering on the polished leather shoes. “Stylish as ever. Mallorquin leather?”

“ _Wooyoung,_ ” San said ignoring the question. He stared at Wooyoung blankly, trying not to give away his surprise at seeing him alive. Wooyoung grinned. He had dyed purple hair and wore a dark, green suit—San didn’t even to inspect it closely to know it was most likely made out of Italian silks—and some simple sneakers enveloped his feet. “Might I know what in the Devil’s name you’re doing here?”

“Oh, come on now. Is this how two old friends should welcome one another? It’s been way too long!” Wooyoung moved closer to clasp his hand on San’s forearm, guiding him to a room in the back of the restaurant. “It’s been terribly dreadful, I must say.”

“What has been?” San wondered despite his _faux_ dislike towards Wooyoung.

The room revealed to be a simple study, looking rather modern with the white walls and shrill lights, but the desk was beautifully handmade, most likely out pine wood—San knew Wooyoung had a weakness for the Mediterranean area—and a globe stood atop it that San recognized to be a gift he had given Wooyoung a very, _very_ long time ago. His heart stuttered at the realization that Wooyoung had kept it all these years.

Wooyoung sat down in a big, leathered chair and offered another one to San. He opened a cabinet below his desk and retrieved a bottle of wine and two small goblets, these were handmade as well, beautifully carved. If San had to guess, they most likely came from Murano. He knew Wooyoung had spent a lot of years in Venice during the late seventeenth century.

“So many years without you. I found you to be rather delightful company,” Wooyoung said with a saucy wink. He uncapped the greenish bottle, pouring himself and San each a goblet. Half full.

(“You cannot fill up your wine to the brim!” Wooyoung had once insisted, shaking his head in disappointment and snatching the wine bottle out of San’s hand. “Wine is to be enjoyed, not drunk.”)

San raised his eyebrows, taking the glass with a nod. “Really? I remember our time differently.”

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “If you mean our minor altercation in the seventeenth century—”

“It was not minor!” San protested. “You made a fool of me!”

Wooyoung, who had held his goblet close to his lips, about to take a sip, placed the wine glass down precariously.

“A fool?” he wondered, regarding San with a strange look. “It was I who ended up looking like a fool! Courting you to no end only to have you throw my heart away in public.” San nearly spilled his wine, surprised at those words. “In such a harsh way too. It took me a while to recover from that…”

“I-I think I don’t quite follow,” San admitted.

“I wallowed for two centuries! I wrote sad poetry with my human friends. Such tragic times.” He shook his head, meeting San’s eyes. “All those poems and prose tellings filled with my hurt and our broken bond; which now lecturers and professors refer to as homoerotic subtext.” He snorted. “ _Unbelievable_! How much love and regret must one man wax about his beloved friend before it is seen as what it is?!” He shot San a questioning look, expecting an answer.

San realized that Wooyoung hadn’t changed much, still eccentric and talkative as ever, and with his insensitive way of speaking of the matters of the heart.

“Wooyoung,” San interrupted him. “You had invited me to your den, where you held that grand party of yours—I still remember the vivid colors of the silks you had made everyone wear.” Albeit his inner frustration, the memory made him utter a minuscule smile. Wooyoung knew how to throw his parties, how to get the crowd pleased and sedated, how to have people come back again and again. Maybe that was why San found himself there now, because he, just like so many others, had fallen for Wooyoung’s charms, addicted to them and how he could make one feel important. “You made your servants cook up a whole menu with those-those aberrations you call _Farfalle_. Truly a disgrace to the Italian kitchen; they are terrible for cooking!”

Wooyoung tilted his head, his lips lightly touching the rim of his goblet. He tipped it back, taking the last bit of burgundy liquid, he waited a moment before swallowing.

“Please correct me if I am wrong, my dearest, are you saying you despised my gesture of preparing you a whole Farfalle menu?” San nodded, the memory bringing back the anger and irritation, then the shame and guilt for having thought that Wooyoung had cared for him but had made him the laughing stock instead hit him. “I was trying to convince you they weren’t as dreadful as you always claimed. I was and still am quite proud of my _strichetti_ —pardon, Farfalle. I felt so much despair when you told me you hated them, so I wanted to make you appreciate them. I had dozens of artists come in and perfection the butterfly wings, make them beautifully shaped, only for you to tip over the table over and leave without another word.”

Wooyoung deflated after that long overdue explanation, his eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and his dead skin looked a bit more rosy; most likely he had fed well on the synthetic blood, it could cause redness of the skin. (San would know, he was the inventor of the synthetic blood.)

“You mean to tell me that you were trying to court me by serving me the one food I most and absolutely despise?” Wooyoung nodded mutely, his eyes strained on San with interest and hope. “My goodness! You _are_ a fool.”

“Hey!” Wooyoung protested, serving himself and San some more wine. “That is not very nice. I am here confessing to you with the truth and you insult me! Is there really no chance for me, San?” he asked quietly, more sober than his usual flamboyant and overly annoying self. 

It always had a different effect on him when Wooyoung used his name. It made him think back to their encounters before their misunderstanding in Italy all those centuries ago, when they had laid underneath the same covers and lived in a vampire Lord’s den, working on the farm—harvesting wine, baking bread, painting the sunsets over the Italian province. It had been the best decades of San’s miserably long life. Then, Wooyoung’s wealth had begun and he had been adored by many; around that period San had realized he was doomed forever for he had fallen in love.

Doomed because _love_ wasn’t an immortal being’s nature. No one could love forever.

There San sat, though, in the twenty-first century, and although he still felt wary and slightly irritated towards Wooyoung, he could feel that pulsating adoration and love beneath his skin too.

“After all these centuries are you saying you still want to win me over?”

Wooyoung nodded. “I’ve never stopped wanting you.”

“Love isn’t for the immortal,” San simply replied, taking a bit of pleasure in the way Wooyoung’s mask finally broke apart. He had been growing tired of seeing it, wondering if the Wooyoung he once had known even existed beneath it anymore.

“You cannot mean that!” Wooyoung stood up, smoothing his Italian silks, and stalked over to stand in front of San. “I do not believe you.” He turned towards his desk and let his hand fall onto the globe, spinning it. San watched him attentively. Wooyoung stopped the globe with his index finger, the nail scraping against the surface. San flinched. “China. 1515. We met in that temple as humans, unaware of the destiny that would befall us.” He spun the globe again, stopping at a different country. San gulped. “Germany. 1541. We met again as vampires and began a long and quite intense affair.” Wooyoung trailed his finger downwards. “Italy. 1574. You and I were accepted into Yeosang’s den, living happily.” He looked at San with so much sadness. Wooyoung was a wreck. “I can’t have been the only one to spend the days sulking in my bed because I yearned for the night as it meant I’d see you again.”

“What if you were?” San wondered, testing Wooyoung.

“Then you are the most ruthless human I have ever encountered, San.”

“I am not a human,” he reminded him. “I am a vampire, as are you.”

“As a vampire you still possess humanity in you.” Wooyoung shook his head. He spun the globe anew. “Seoul. 2019. I heard a decade ago that you were back in your home land and since then I’ve been working on this.” He gestured his hands around, referring to the Italian restaurant. “I have wanted to see you again and ask you one last time, if you perhaps feel the same after all.” San bit his lower lip. “But I suppose I really _am_ foolish.”

San stood up, leaning his cane against the desk. He peered down at Wooyoung. He moved his hand towards the globe, spinning it in the same fashion Wooyoung had. “Italy. 1651. You made me feel as if I had been a joke to you all those decades.”

“But I do not understand, after all the effort I went through—”

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” San interrupted him. “I never wanted a grand gesture from you, Wooyoung. All I wanted was the promise that you’d love me for eternity.”

Wooyoung opened and closed his mouth a few times, staggering backwards so he could openly stare up at San’s face. His brown eyes were searching and hopeful.

“Are you implying that you do feel the same for me as I do for you?”

San shrugged nonchalantly; such a modern gesture, he found. “I don’t think love should be measured like that. Loving you is the only thing I have ever known to be permanent.”

Wooyoung nodded his head slowly and stepped closer to San. His hands came up to San’s face, holding it delicately; one hand snuck up to press lightly against the back of San’s neck, urging him down. Wooyoung stood up on his tiptoes, angling San’s head at his will, and finally kissed him— _oh_ , how San had missed that. 

When Wooyoung drew back, not fully, just a few centimeters in between them; he smiled beautifully. “Loving you, my dearest, was all I ever knew how to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3<3
> 
> You can find me on Twitter [here](https://www.twitter.com/hhhjoong)


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